


Knickknacks

by sarcasticsra



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Harold secretly likes it, John has terrible taste, M/M, Oblivious, but that's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John buys Harold (very random) little gifts. It takes Harold a while to figure out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knickknacks

**Author's Note:**

> So I did [this meme](http://sarcasticsra.tumblr.com/post/54722054389/orockthro-on-im-hey-hey-hey-d-you-should-do) and completely made myself want to write the fic about John buying Harold silly knickknacks. Since it's absolutely nothing I should be working on, here it is! Naturally. XD
> 
> Thanks for the beta, Kelly!

Harold notices it as soon as he sees his desk. He knows precisely how everything is set up, where everything belongs, and what is and is not supposed to be there. He’s entirely certain that his computer setup did not include a small ceramic knickknack in the shape of three books until this morning. Frowning as he moves closer, he picks it up; the item in question is heavier than he first assumed, and the books have titles etched into them: _Magic_ , _Adventure_ , and _Miracles_.

It takes a lot of effort not to roll his eyes.

“Like it, Harold?”

The amusement in John’s voice is nearly palpable, and Harold sends him an even look. “Where on Earth did you find this, Mr. Reese?”

“Secondhand shop,” he says cheerfully, taking a sip from his coffee cup, and Harold does roll his eyes that time. John’s obvious good mood doesn’t dim as he hands him his tea, and Harold takes a sip from his own cup.

He turns the knickknack around in his hand, inspecting it again, before heading toward one of the shelves and setting it down there. “We have a new number,” he says, moving back to his computer.

\---

It happens again a week later, this time late at night. The number wrapped up, Harold is at his desk, catching up on several weeks’ worth of work for some of his cover identities. It’s by and large mindless and uninteresting and shouldn’t take longer than a few hours, even with only a fraction of his attention focused on his screens.

Bear perks up just as he’s finished adding several minor errors to the code in front of him. It’s still too neat, too organized, and he’ll have to go through it a second time, but it makes a reasonable stopping point for now. John comes into view just as he sits back; he’s holding a large bag of takeout in one hand and another, smaller paper bag in his other.

Harold raises his eyebrows.

“There’s a small odds and ends store right next door to the Thai place,” John says, striding across the room and setting the food down on the table. “I thought it was closed. Turns out the owner just keeps odd hours.” He opens the small bag and reaches inside, presenting his newfound treasure: a small wooden carving, some kind of mutant bird-man hybrid resting in the palm of his hand. 

Harold reaches out and takes it, noting how light it is. The minute detail work apparent in the carving is actually rather impressive, even if the overall effect is somewhat bizarre. “An excellent find, Mr. Reese,” he says, handing it back.

John smirks and takes it but doesn’t put it back in the bag. He moves toward the shelf where Harold put the ceramic knickknack and gently sets it next to it. They don’t look remotely good next to each other and in fact clash rather horribly, but Harold merely tilts his head slightly as he takes in the sight.

John looks pleased with himself as he turns around, and Harold can’t stop the small half-smile that forms in response.

“Let’s eat, Harold,” John says.

\---

They’re taking Bear for a walk when John stops to talk to one of the street vendors they often pass on their way. This particular man appears to be selling mostly jewelry, but there are several figurines also on display. Harold knows before John even picks it up which item he’s about to buy.

It’s another ceramic, this time with a glossy finish, depicting a brown dog chewing on a loafer. Harold briefly glances down at Bear, as if to say, _don’t get any ideas_ , while John blithely overpays for the knickknack. The man tries to offer him change, but John cheerfully refuses, thanking him, and they continue their walk.

“What do you think, Finch?” he asks him, holding out his new purchase for inspection.

Harold takes it, smiles slightly, and says, “It will look terrible next to the others.”

John merely grins. “Have I disrupted your carefully ordered system, Harold?”

Harold doesn’t dignify that with a response. Besides, John already knows the answer.

\---

“Honestly, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, handing him an icepack and sitting down on the couch next to him, “must you antagonize _everyone_?”

They’re back at John’s place for the time being—Harold insisted, given the extent of his injuries. There was nothing life-threatening, thankfully, but a lot that needed tending to, including several bruised ribs, a shallow knife wound on his arm, and a black eye that, even now, still looks particularly awful.

John presses the icepack to his eye. “They antagonized me first.”

“We just wrapped up a particular difficult case,” Harold says. “You could have walked away, rather than engage in their petty—”

“No,” John interrupts firmly. 

Harold presses his lips together in disapproval—or maybe frustration. He’s not sure which anymore. “I’m an adult,” he says. “I can handle a few ignorant comments. You had no problem walking away when they were harassing _you_.”

John merely looks at him, expression stony, and Harold sighs heavily, meeting his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have exacerbated your injuries on my account, John.”

John holds his gaze for a few seconds, expression softening, before saying, “I’ll be fine.”

Harold still feels frustrated, so he stands. “I’ll get you a glass of water,” he says, heading for the kitchen. As he’s retrieving a glass, he notices the plastic bag sitting on the counter, forgotten in their haste to get John cleaned up.

He leaves the glass by the sink and opens the bag, pulling out the cheap plastic toy—a small rubber duck wearing glasses and a tie. It’s ridiculous that such an absurd, innocuous thing could have been the cause of such idiocy, that anyone could have cared about John giving it to him with that tiny, shy smile on his face, or that his own answering smile might have offended someone in turn.

It suddenly occurs to him that he’s apparently been rather oblivious, these past few weeks.

Sighing again, he fills up the glass and brings the duck with him back to the couch. He hands the water to John, setting the duck on the coffee table, before sitting down again. “You’ll want to put it next to the dog, I suppose?”

John smiles at him, and Harold wonders at how his black eye doesn’t ruin the effect.

\---

It’s been almost two weeks since that evening at John’s apartment, the evening that Harold finally realized _exactly_ what John’s gifts meant. He’s been trying to formulate a response since then without much success.

As it happens, a solution presents itself by chance—he almost passes an antique store on the way to the library one morning before deciding to stop inside, just for a look around. It ends up only taking a few minutes of searching before he finds precisely what he’s been looking for.

John is already there when Harold finally arrives, small paper bag in hand, light blue tissue paper peeking out over the top. He’s glancing over what they have on the glass board, coffee in hand, and Harold sees his tea sitting on his desk.

“Morning, Finch,” John says, turning to greet him, and his eyebrows go up when he notices the bag.

“An addition to our collection,” he says, handing John the bag. He picks up his tea, mostly to have something with which to occupy his attention, while John pulls out the figurine.

Harold glances over just as John is gently unwrapping the last of the tissue paper. It’s a raven and a wolf, etched glass, and John is giving it a look of pleased, awed wonder. “You have better taste than I do, Harold.”

“Perhaps,” he says, after a moment. “If only that could make up for the unconscionably long time it took me to figure things out.”

John’s head jerks up at that, eyes searching, and Harold steps closer. John lets him tug him down slightly by his jacket, and Harold meets his eyes one last time before kissing him, gentle but thorough. When they break apart, John is smiling irresistibly, and Harold takes a deep breath. “It occurs to me that I never properly thanked you for your gifts, John.”

John’s smile broadens. He pulls away for a moment, setting the glass figurine on the shelf next to the others, and then returns, one hand resting idly on Harold’s hip. “You’re definitely welcome, Harold,” he says quietly, and leans down to kiss him again.


End file.
